


Hell and High Water

by thatviciousvixen



Series: The Orpheus Vignettes [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, But I'm vague on details because I'm lazy, Canon-Typical Depictions of Violence, Kinda, M/M, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, There's lots of talking about feelings, Will travels to the Underworld, but it's not heavy I promise, deals with canon character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatviciousvixen/pseuds/thatviciousvixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the only outcome Will hadn't predicted; he comes out of the water to a world where Hannibal Lecter didn't survive. Realizing all-too-late that he can't live without him, what is he willing to do to bring him back?</p><p>Orpheus and Eurydice as told by Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy happy holidays to my Secret Santa giftee, [littlenimart](http://littlenimart.tumblr.com)! You requested fluffy and loving murder husbands, and I...went off the deep end with Greek mythology. I hope you like this weird long epic journey!

Will makes three startling discoveries upon being pulled from the water.

The first is that he is alive. This is quite the dilemma as he fully intended for the fall to kill him. Between the drop, the crushing waves, and the amount of blood he and Hannibal lost bringing Dolarhyde down together there wasn’t supposed to be any chance that either would walk out of this alive. Yet here he is, spluttering and shivering on the shore, a group of concerned fishermen gathered over him with worried looks on their faces. 

The second discovery is that he can’t see out of his left eye. He’s not sure if this is a permanent or temporary malady as the eye itself seems to be intact, but his vision is well and truly gone on one side. Disturbing, but not life-threatening.

The third realization is that Hannibal is nowhere to be found.

Despite a great ache in his head and a vicious pain in his cheek he stands, practically throwing himself back to the water to find the missing man. His haste is impeded only by the men who revived him, who grab him with firm hands weathered by years of hard work and drag him back to safety. He struggles, but between the headache and the blood loss and his impaired vision he just doesn’t have the strength to fight left in him. All of it was spent defeating a dragon. He falls back to the cold, wet sand and clasps his head in his hands, body shaking so hard he feels his soul might be dislodged from its moorings.

He barely registers the chill seeping into his skin from his wet clothes. The wounds in his cheek and side are nothing more than distant aches. He is aware of nothing but Hannibal’s absence.

They were supposed to fall together. Odette and Siegfried, unable to be joined in life but forever bound in death, plunging into the lake to seal their pact. There was no other way. Will couldn’t exist with Hannibal in the dark world he’d created for him, no matter how twisted and sick he’d become in the years they’d known each other. No matter how he’d been shaped into Hannibal’s image. In that same vein he couldn’t turn Hannibal over to Jack, couldn’t imagine a life lived without him. Without his intensity, his strength.

Will has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

He doesn’t notice the ambulance until strong hands are gripping him by the shoulders and a woman crouches into his field of vision. 

“Hi there,” she says, smiling kindly. Will immediately resents her. Despises her. Wishes he had the strength to get up and walk far, far away, back into the ocean to let the waves pull him under. Back to Hannibal. “Can you tell me what your name is?”

For a moment he debates ignoring the question, but it won’t be long until Jack catches wind of his retrieval and once more has Will in his grasp. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. “Graham. Will Graham,” he rasps, voice hoarse and raw from the saltwater he’s swallowed. His cheek pulls and burns, and he can feel a fresh trickle of blood spill from the wound.

The woman nods to someone standing behind Will, and he can hear a man’s voice speaking to someone through a radio. He doesn’t care who. It takes him a moment to realize the woman is speaking again. “...good care of you, Will. Can you stand? Come on, easy does it.” She offers her hand (he debates ignoring it but even he isn’t that rude) and with a gentle tug pulls him to his feet. A blanket is placed around his shoulder as he’s led into the ambulance, and then they’re off.

Every mile takes him away from that inky black water, from where Hannibal is waiting for him. From where Will has left him behind.

*

A doctor holds a small light in front of him, shines it directly into his right eye and watches with approval as Will’s pupil dilates. She moves the small penlight to the left, where it promptly disappears from Will’s sight.

“There. Nothing now,” Will says wearily.

The doctor hums and writes something down on her clipboard. Will knows he should ask if it’s permanent, should wonder what the course of his treatment is going to be, but he can’t seem to find it within himself to care. All he wants is to curl up with his dogs and a bottle of whiskey and drink until he disappears.

“Well, Will,” the doctor says softly, tucking her hand in her pocket. She’s a petite woman somewhere in her fifties, hair short and stark white, eyes dark and sparkling. She seems kind. The nametag worn neatly on the lapel of her white coat reads “Dr. M. Chaudhary.” “It’s mostly good news, although we’ll need to hear back on some of your blood work before you’re completely in the clear. You’ve got a hematoma in your eye. That explains the loss of vision, and it means it’ll be back in a few weeks or so. We can pursue some treatment options to speed the recovery along. We will have to keep you though to keep an eye on those wounds, you’ve lost a fairly extensive amount of blood.”

Will’s heart sinks. He’s eager to get out from under these lights, into the darkness and quiet he’s longing for.

As if specifically attuned to Will’s misery and dedicated to worsening it, Jack Crawford walks in with a grim look on his face. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, his hat tilted low over one eye. Will remembers a time he used to bask in Jack’s unwavering determination. Now all he can see is the root of all of his unending pain.

“You’re going to have to stand on this side,” Will says lamely, motioning to the right. “I can’t see out of my left eye.”

Jack gives a short nod, adjusting accordingly. “What happened up there, Will?” If nothing else, he’s to the point.

Will is ready, though. He’s been practicing this answer for quite some time in his head, knowing it would be on the forefront of Jack’s mind when they reunited. While every aching piece of him wants to tell Jack the truth, wants to scream that Hannibal’s gone and it was supposed to be both of them and _how dare he_ speak the name of the only man he could never get under his thumb...well, he knows that just isn’t wise.

So he blinks. And he sighs. And he picks out the pieces of the truth that Jack will want to hear.

“We killed Dolarhyde together,” he mutters out of one side of his mouth. The other is stiff, stitched and bandaged and still numb the lidocaine they injected into his skin. “He shot Hannibal and got a few good stabs in on me, but we managed to finish him off. He’ll be up there still, unless the vultures got to him.”

“And Hannibal? How did you end up in the water?” Jack’s voice is a warning. _Watch what you say, I’m not sure I know where your allegiances lie anymore._ Will has to give him credit, Jack is a smart man.

“Hannibal is dead,” he says, voice flat. “They brought his body in an hour ago, he couldn’t be revived. After Dolarhyde was dead we could barely stand up without holding on to each other, so...so I got him to the cliffside. And I pulled him over.”

Jack frowns, eyebrows knit as he pieces everything together. “You must have known the fall would likely have killed you.”

Will closes his eyes. He nods slowly. “I was banking on it.” His admission is met with silence, so he forces himself to continue. “I’ll never be free of him, Jack. Even now, now that he’s gone. He’ll never let me go. It seemed like the only way.”

“I can think of a few options other than killing yourself.” There’s a concern, a desperation in Jack’s voice that almost cracks through Will’s stony exterior.

“Can you?” he bites back, eyes flashing as he opens them to stare down the man in front of him. “I know you’ve struggled too, Jack. I know you’ve lost people you loved. But even through it all, you never for a moment lost track of who you were. You never lost sight of who you’re supposed to be, of what’s right.” He looks away, raising a shaking hand up to run his fingers through his hair. It’s still damp from the water. Or has he been sweating? Time swirls around him, points of reference melting into one another. “Even before him I didn’t know who I was. And when I finally start to figure it out it’s because someone I trusted implicitly had been manipulating me, shaping me into this...this _monster_ I always feared I’d become. So no, Jack, there isn’t much left for me. Not many roads to travel, not if I’m going to be carrying all of this with me for the rest of my life.”

Silence fills the room, so thick and tense that Will thinks he might choke on it. It’s like the water all over again, forcing itself into his mouth and down his throat. When Jack finally speaks it is with the same dismissive tone he’s always carted out just for Will.

“You’ve been through a traumatic experience,” he says, clapping a firm hand on Will’s shoulder. Will’s muscles scream at the touch - the pain medication is starting to wear off, and beyond that he just doesn’t _want_ Jack to touch him. “You’ve been tangled in his web for far too long, you don’t know how to exist outside of it. But you’ll get home, and you’ll pick your pieces back up, and you’ll see. I’m not going to let you waste away, Will.”

“I was always going to be his last victim, Jack,” he said softly. “Even with him gone, he’s seen to it. He killed everything that was Will Graham. I don’t know who he left in his place.”

*

He sees a number of visitors during his convalescence. There’s a neverending stream of doctors, psychiatrists, detectives; a whole slew of nameless, faceless people he has no desire to speak to. Freddie Lounds comes in to start warming him up to the idea of a book, smirking and sure until he starts to shout and tries rip his IV out of his arm. It’s pretty drastic and all for show but it definitely gets her out of the room.

Surprisingly, Jimmy Price ends up being his favorite visitor. It doesn’t hurt that he walks in with a steaming cup of coffee that isn’t from the hospital cafeteria. It’s from some tiny cafe nearby, and when Will takes a sip it’s rich and dark and strong. He moans at the comforting bitterness, letting his head tip back to the stiff pillow behind him.

“It’s been a long time since I made a man moan like that,” Jimmy teases. “I wish I’d known sooner that coffee is the trick.”

Will manages a crooked smile; it’s the least he can do. “Does Jack know you’re here?”

“Jack realized a long time ago that trying to control me is like trying to walk a hummingbird on a leash,” Jimmy says, waving his hand. “Anyway, I’m a grown man. A stubborn one at that. I’d like to see him try to stop me.”

They spend an hour making surprisingly comfortable small talk, Jimmy catching Will up on everything that’s happening back at work. Now that Hannibal’s gone they’ve moved on to new cases, new criminals, new creeps that stalk the night and prey on the innocent. “No one building beehives out of people’s heads or using their bodies to grow mushrooms, but...it’s been nice. To solve some normal murders for a change.” Jimmy stops, making a face. “Well, as normal as murders can be.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Will sighs. “We’ve spent a long time dealing with the really bizarre ones.”

“Speaking of bizarre ones,” Jimmy says pointedly, putting his empty cup aside. “How are you dealing with Hannibal being gone? Are you alright?”

Will is too stunned to respond. Jimmy is the first person to acknowledge that Will might miss the man he’d grown so close to, that he might actually be in mourning. The question almost feels like a trap. He tries to stall for time, tries to tamp down the emotions that seem eager to bubble up out of him, but he can’t seem to find a way to keep it at bay.

“You look surprised,” Jimmy chuckles. It’s not unkind laughter, he seems to be looking at Will like he actually gives a damn. “You’re allowed to miss him, you know. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He sighs, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms. “I used to date this guy in college that was absolutely awful. Steve Manning. Just a total prick. A little while after we broke up he died in a car accident, I was devastated. Everyone I knew hated him; my parents, my friends, everyone. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love what I loved about him, what we had between us.”

Will adjusts in the bed. He’s turned so he can see Jimmy with his good eye, glued to his words. “I just...leave it to me to have a crisis of sexuality over a cannibal,’ he murmurs, a weight lifting off his chest as Jimmy laughs again. “I don’t know, Jimmy. He was a lot of things to me, I don’t know how I’m supposed to fill this empty space where he used to be.” It’s the first time he’s admitted the feelings to himself, now that they exist in the world he can’t deny the emotions simmering so close to the surface.

“You don’t,” Jimmy says simply, giving a small shrug. “That space is very specifically his size and shape, and it’ll always be there. But you’ll learn to look away from it, and it won’t itch so bad anymore. You’ll find new ways to fulfill yourself, new ways to spend your time. New people to have crises over.”

He reaches over, taking Will’s hand in his own. It’s warm and soft - Jimmy clearly cares about tending to skin. For once Will doesn’t feel the urge to pull away.

“You’re going to be okay, Will,” he promises. “I don’t know how yet and I doubt you do either, but you’ll be okay.”

Will doesn’t believe him, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same.

*

A week into his hospital visit Alana comes to see him. Will doesn’t speak through the entire visit. It’s not that she’s done anything wrong; on the contrary, Alana seems to be the only one who ever does anything right. Still, he owes her so many apologies, an amount so overwhelming that the words get caught in his throat. So they sit in silence, hands twined together, speaking their sorrow through the simple bond of their touch.

She’s got Margot and their son. With Hannibal gone they are safe. Will can only hope that it’s atonement enough for all of his sins.

*

“Will. I’m glad to see you’re recovering.”

Of everyone affected by Hannibal’s gravitational pull he expects the visit from Dr. Du Maurier the least. They’ve always made their displeasure with each other quite clear. Will’s sure his hatred of her is some sort of misplaced jealousy, a simmering rage that she ran away to Italy as Hannibal’s bride while Will bled out on his kitchen floor. He made the wrong choice that day, and she took his place far too easily.

She walks in with a thinly veiled disinterest, eyes sweeping over him where he’s laid out on the bed. It’s getting easier to get up every now and then and walk around, although the wound on his stomach is taking its time to heal. His face still stings and itches as it begins to knit back together, but it’s no longer tearing open every now and then in a fresh gush of blood that runs down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth.

His eye is still no good, but perhaps that is his punishment for living when Hannibal did not. 

“Bedelia,” he says wearily. “Good to see you.”

Bedelia offers a chilly smile as she pulls a chair close, sitting primly with her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. “Good, we’ve gotten our customary lies out of the way. Let’s spend the rest of our visit being completely honest with each other. I’m told Hannibal Lecter is dead.”

Will looks away, clenching his teeth. The words make him want to vomit. He’s had nearly two weeks now to come to terms with the loss, but it’s not going as he’d hoped it would. Every day brings a fresh wave of pain and the renewed knowledge that he is now truly alone in the world. For better or worse Hannibal is the only person to ever see him for what he is, to love him for the demons inside of him. He’s starting to realize the depth of his own affections, and how it’s too late to do anything about them.

“He drowned,” he said quietly. “I was supposed to go with him, but I fucked it up.”

He should tell Bedelia that he can’t see her when she sits on the left like that, but he finds he doesn’t really want to see her anyway. The disinterest in her voice makes him want to scream, but he doesn’t want to reopen his stitches. Everything right now is teetering on a knife-edge between what he wants, what he needs, what he ought to do.

“How very Romeo and Juliet,” she says after a pause. “In the truest sense of the tale. They couldn’t get their deaths right either.”

For a moment Will debates asking her to fuck off, but somewhere in the back of his mind Hannibal gently reminds him that appearances are everything and rudeness is an abominable sin. “I guess that makes me Juliet,” he says with a sigh. “Is there something I can help you with, or did you come to gloat?”

Bedelia _tuts_ gently. “Will, you were never my enemy. I’ve always found you to be a bit foolish, but your adoration of Hannibal can’t be blamed. We were all flies in his web, anyone who flew too close couldn’t help but stick. My most recent irritations all gravitated around you setting free the man who had promised to someday consume my flesh.” Will finally turns his head to he can see her as she speaks. Bedelia tilts her head, a curious look on her face. “Do you love him?”

Will is taken aback by the question. “What?”

“Do you love him?” she asks again, more firmly this time. “There must be something you feel for him, if you were so willing to die with him to avoid having to face your conscience and turn him in. To live without him. I know he loved you. Do you love him?”

The question quickens his pulse. He knows deep down that he has a lot of self-reflecting to do, so many questions to ask himself about who he and what this whole ordeal has done to him. Still, the words come to his lips before he has time to think about them.

“Yes. So much.”

Bedelia nods, lips pressed tight together. Despite her well constructed mask he can see a range of emotions flicker through her eyes, pity and disgust and understanding and something else that he can’t quite place. She lifts her purse into her lap, unsnapping the clasp and sliding her hand inside. A small piece of paper is retrieved, folded into a crisp square that she reaches over to press into his hand.

“Good,” Bedelia says firmly. “Go get him back.”


	2. Chapter 2

Will sits calmly in Hannibal’s office, the paper unfolded and resting in his lap. There is an address written in careful lettering, and a simple set of instructions: _Find the red door. Take the stairs and keep walking no matter how impossible it all starts to seem._

“What do you intend to do with it?”

Will looks up, heart giving a painful twinge in his chest. Hannibal is in his usual spot, the chair he’s always perched in for their sessions. His suit is a dark plum, impeccably sharp and pressed with a matching silk tie and a pocket square of white and gold paisley. He looks younger, less guarded than Will is used to seeing. His hair is loose and falling over his forehead, free from it’s usual careful style, and that is how Will knows he’s dreaming.

“I can’t say I’m not curious,” Will admits. “I’m emotionally raw, just enough that I’m willing to do anything if it means you’ll be back. That we’ll be together.” He carefully lifts the address, running his thumbs over the writing. “I just...can’t she have given me some sort of idea what’s going on? How is this supposed to bring you back? Did you fake your death?”

Hannibal tilts his head in concession. “It’s entirely possible. It’s been done before, and by people much less clever.”

Will traps his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing until it feels raw and cracked. He can taste the coppery tang of blood. “South Dakota. I figured you’d head out of the country first thing, send for me once you were safe.”

“That does seem like what I would do,” Hannibal agrees.

Making a small, frustrated noise, Will stands to pace the length of the office. “Can you give me a little more, please? Just some sort of idea what this is all about, so I know if I’m being lured into some sort of trap that I don’t see coming.”

Before he can turn and walk another lap, strong hands grip his shoulders to turn him gently. He finds himself pulled against Hannibal in a recreation of their embrace on the cliff top. Immediately every muscle in his body relaxes, every nerve smoothing itself out as he melts into Hannibal’s arms. It feels entirely too right for something that is altogether new and unexplored. Still, Hannibal’s cologne is soft and spicy, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of Will’s neck.

“I cannot give you any answers, clever Will,” Hannibal murmurs, stroking a palm down Will’s back and lower to grip his hip. “I’m not here. You’re talking to yourself, anticipating what I may do or say.” He sighs, pressing a kiss to Will’s temple. “I long to give you the answers you need, but you must find them yourself. All I can say is that I do hope you find me, and that I dearly wish for us to be reunited.”

Will knows that this is all a dream, but it feels so real as Hannibal strokes through his hair. He gently removes Will’s glasses and sets them aside before touching his cheek. “How I adore you,” he whispers into the shared breath between them. “Come to me, Will, and they’ll never be able to part us again.”

He pulls away slightly, a warm look on his face. Just before he can lean in to press their lips together Will wakes in his hospital bed, panting and shaking in the darkness.

*

It takes another two weeks for Will to be released from the hospital. He’s mostly back in one piece; he can eat without irritating his cheek, can walk and bathe and dress himself without harming his body any more than it already has been. The retinal hemorrhage that has obstructed his left-side vision is finally repairing, and while the eye is still blurry he can see. Good enough for him. With everything working better than he could have hoped he pulls on the jeans and sweater Jimmy dropped off, signing himself out and walking out the door.

The air outside is miserably cold and dry. The snow underfoot is old and filthy, tramped down to a slick and dangerous ice that he must negotiate with slow steps and careful planning. It wouldn’t do to fall, not when he’s spent so much time already in recovery. He’s not sure his body can handle another tumble. 

Will wants to head straight for the airport, but he knows there are things he needs to see to first. Despite his gut telling him to skip it and go straight to Hannibal he stops by the BAU to report to Jack. There are still things they need to go over together and official statements to sign. Throughout the ordeal Jack eyes Will like he’s some wild, unknown creature, something that might lash out at any moment. Kade Purnell is there to add insult to injury, every question like a carefully aimed dagger meant to catch him off guard.

Somehow he makes it through without being arrested. Afterwards Jack looks at him with a sort of pity that makes Will want to vomit and scream and throw things at the wall, but he manages to contain himself and get through. Jimmy is delighted to see him, and even Zeller has to fight back a begrudging smile before asking him something completely tactless about Hannibal’s feelings for him. It’s only slightly awkward. Will figures that if he can survive a fall off of a cliff he can survive the questions.

His next stop is the old house in Wolf Trap. He’d moved back in when Molly (wisely) decided to run for her life, there’s a comfort in the old place and the way it creaks and groans just as he’d remembered. Almost everything is as he’d left it; books still line the shelves, there are still engine parts on the coffee table. A cruel tidal wave of emotion crashes into him when he sees all the empty dog beds scattered in front of the fireplace. 

If he lives to see the new year he intends to get them all back. According to Alana they’ve all been plucked up by old students of his, in some grand gesture of solidarity and support of their instructor. To keep them safe until his sanity returned. _Jokes on them_ , he thinks with a grim smile. _I’m still crazy._ Still, it’s nice to know that they’re nearby and in his future. He hopes.

He packs a bag with the barest of necessities. A few pairs of jeans, clean underwear, shirts, toothbrush and toothpaste. He fills a carry-on with all of the medications the hospital prescribed him and his travel documents. The address goes carefully into his wallet. The moment everything is packed away he locks up the house and heads out for his flight.

He doesn’t know what’s ahead of him, but it’s got to be better than what’s behind.

*

South Dakota manages to be much colder than Virginia was. It makes Will’s entire body ache as he steps out of the rented truck he’s driving, his shoulder giving a twinge in protest as he opens the gate that separates the property from the road. There seems to be nothing of any value as far as his one good eye can see, nothing but trees and unused farmland and a broken down tractor growing rusty from disuse. His stomach flips. This doesn’t seem like the sort of place Hannibal would bide his time, but he’s been wrong too many times to count to turn around and go home. He climbs back into the truck and pushes on.

It’s a ten minute drive from the gate before he reaches the address. It appears in front of him like a lonely spectre, haunting in the pale grayness of February. Standing alone on the property is a simple looking farmhouse, two stories, a small porch wrapped around the front. There are no cars about, no animals, nothing to hint at life inside the dilapidated walls. Just peeling paint and a door that seems to be rotting right off of its hinges.

His heart sinks. There’s definitely no chance Hannibal would hide in a place like this, no matter how desperate he was to escape capture. With a sigh he trudges forward and knocks on that crooked, sad looking door. No response comes from within. He waits a long minute before trying again, this time adding in a loud “hello?” to try and alert the inhabitants to his presence. Still nothing. With a groan he steps back, looking around. The porch creaks as he steps down onto the overgrown grass and walks to the side of the house. All the windows are dark, all the shutters drawn. One is so crooked that he can peek right in, but the house is too dark to see anything of note. 

“If he’s alive I’m going to kill him myself,” Will mutters darkly as he walks back to the front. Despite his words there is an aching hope in his chest, an anxious longing that maybe Hannibal is just inside and waiting to end his quest. He starts pondering the specifics of their reunion. Could he kiss him? Their relationship is so tangled and complicated, Will knows he possesses Hannibal’s soul fully. Does that mean he’s ready to possess his body as well? Is he thinking too far ahead?

With a shaking hand he turns the door handle and pushes. There is no resistance as the door swings open to reveal utter darkness. 

Groping around but finding no light switch, Will settles on pulling his phone out and using it to illuminate his way. He suddenly wishes he’d brought a gun. While the house seems empty he never quite knows what to expect anymore, not after all the things he’s seen in the last few years. The best he can do is keep his steps cautious, tread lightly over ancient floorboards as he searches for some sort of message, some sign as to why he’s been sent here.

He thinks back to the slip of paper in his wallet. _Find the red door._ The instruction is easy enough. He carefully gropes his way through the house, checking each room with his glowing screen for the right color. Door after door after door yields nothing, just more plain, damp wood and more empty rooms. He makes his way upstairs, careful to test each step with his foot before putting his full weight on it. The second floor proves to be just as useless as the first. 

Will can feel his ire mounting as he returns downstairs. He’s beginning to suspect he’s been set up. Not that he knows what joy Bedelia would get out of giving him false hope and sending him on a wild goose chase - they may not like each other, but something like this would be far too juvenile for someone of her class and standards. 

The worst part is the mounting realization that Hannibal might truly be lost to him. If this is all for nothing then...he’s got nothing to hope for, no one but his demons to keep him company for the rest of his life. Hannibal has created a man who relied on his guidance and then left him alone. It causes a pain unlike any he’s experienced yet, something hot and lancing that cuts through his heart and settles low in his stomach. With a whispered curse he leans against the nearby wall, pounding his hand against chipped plaster as hot tears flood his vision.

The entire wall reverberates upon being struck. A picture frame falls and shatters across the floor, and at the end of the hall a door swings open.

He hadn’t noticed it before. Carefully stepping over the glass Will heads into the newly revealed entrance, finding a narrow staircase that leads to a basement. The smell of mold and decay is almost overwhelming and somewhere nearby something drips to the floor in a steady _tap, tap, tap._ His skin is crawling. He wants to leave this god awful place, to get a hotel and take a hot shower and drink himself silly before potentially drowning himself in the bathtub. Still, there might be reason to hope. And as long as there’s hope he’ll keep pushing forward.

Hannibal would burn down the world for him, it’s the very least he can do.

Once he remembers the damn flashlight function on his phone searching becomes a bit easier. The light sweeps around the basement, empty and filthy but fairly large. The space is open and uncluttered, a few support columns scattered throughout and a hallway at the opposite end of the room. He makes his way over to it and shines the light directly through.

At the end of the hall he sees a red door. His heart picks up in his chest and his steps become quicker as he makes his way over. It looks entirely out of place compared to every other part of the house, freshly painted with gleaming brass hinges and an antique but well polished door knob. He lifts his hand and knocks. There is no answer. Undeterred, he turns the knob and swings the door open.

Within is another staircase, so deep and narrow that he can’t quite make out the bottom. There are lights though, dim things hanging above that just barely illuminate the steps below them. This certainly seems more promising. With a breath he steps down.

The door immediately snaps shut. He nearly jumps out of his skin, quickly reminding himself of the draft passing through the old house, the way the door in the hall opened at the slightest tap on the wall. Drawing a steady breath, he starts his descent. 

The stairs are steep, almost impossibly so. He walks down what ought to be roughly one floor but they just keep going, still no visible sign of the landing below. He chalks it up to his healing eye and continues on. If his vision were normal he’s sure he’d see where he was going, there’s nothing to worry about. There is no sound but for the gentle tap of his shoe on each stone step, again and again and again as he moves downward. The floor is solid below him, so he can at least rest assured that the steps aren’t going to give out at any point and send him tumbling down.

He keeps going, through what feels like two more floors. Three. By the time he feels he’d be hitting a fourth he’s starting to worry that his mind is playing tricks on him. With shaking hands Will turns to look behind. He can see the door above him, but just barely. He turns and begins to walk down once more, this time counting steps as he goes. 

He gets to two-hundred and starts to feel nauseous.

Beyond the obvious confusion over why anyone might build a staircase that goes so far down, it just doesn’t feel...possible. Everything seems utterly wrong, like the room is spinning around him and somehow he’s lost his way despite having only one direction to travel. Will swallows hard, jaw set to fight the way his mouth waters to warn him of impending sickness. He turns to go back up when he once more thinks of the note he’s been given.

_...keep walking no matter how impossible it starts to seem…_

_keep walking._

Will sets his jaw and takes another step down. 

Time escapes him, after a while he has no idea how long he’s been walking or how many steps he’s taken. All he knows is that his feet are beginning to ache, and that these stairs are going to be a bitch when he has to go back up. 

_Hannibal._ He resolutely reminds himself of Hannibal, of their first breakfast together in Will’s dingy hotel room during the Hobbs case. How from the very beginning Hannibal played Will like a violin, tightly wound and singing oh so beautifully. He thinks of his smile, the way his crow’s feet gather at the corners of his eyes when he’s truly pleased. Of his clever hands playing the harpsichord, of drawings scattered across his desk that seemed to resemble Will in ways he could never find the courage to ask about.

Will thinks of how empty and alone he feels in a world without him. He thinks of second chances and rebirth. He keeps walking.

He travels down for what seems like hours, each passing minute gathering in his chest like drops of water in a bucket and drowning him from within. The more he walks the more impossible it seems, and the more impossible it seems the more hopeful he is that Hannibal will be waiting for him at the end of this.

He’s let himself begin to think of their future together, what it might look like, when he trips.

It’s the last thing his battered body needs. He tumbles for what seems like an eternity, each step slamming into a tender spot or bruise and causing a bright explosion of pain across his skin. Reaching out desperately, he tries to find some sort of hand hold, some way to impede his fall, but finds none.

He falls, and he falls, and he falls.

And then he stops.

Will’s back hits something solid, something that breaks his forward momentum with a sharp “crack.” He painfully untangles his limbs to find himself staring at another door, this one as ruby red as the first. He grabs the handle to stiffly pull himself to his feet, wasting no time in opening the door and practically dragging himself inside.

The chamber within looks like the inside of a cave or cavern of some sort, the walls made of rough rock and the ground hard-packed earth. Instead of sloping down the path now moves straight forward. As he begins to step towards it a hand grabs his wrist, tugging him back and pushing his shoulder to turn him around.

He whirls on the ball of his foot, suddenly face to face with Beverly Katz. She smiles, a broken thing thanks to the fine, even cuts that run from head to toe across her body. 

“Hey, Will.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh my God,” Will breathes, stepping away so quickly that his back strikes the wall behind him. He hits a protruding rock hard enough to bruise his already tender skin, the flesh singing in pain. “Oh my God, oh my God…” Nervous heat prickles at the back of his neck, his breath leaving him in short bursts and shallow panting. “This isn’t real. You’re not real.”

Beverly stands before him as solid and real as she ever was, only now with the addition of a dozen or so vertical slices that run from head to toe. Will has no idea what’s holding her together; nothing, he supposes. When she moves it is almost in pieces, as if the right sight of her body has to hurry to catch up every time the left side changes direction. As if she fans open and forms back together, again and again. It’s grotesque. When she speaks it’s as if she speaks in stereo, multiple voices all of the same tone and source speaking at once. As if her voice is surrounding him. 

Will puts his hand to his forehead, feeling for a fever. “I don’t...it wasn’t supposed to come back, I feel fine. They said the medication would eradicate the infection completely with little chance for relapse...” He knows he’s babbling, that nothing so far has made sense, but this seems to cross a line.

Beverly laughs, the same warm sound as when she was alive. “Will, this isn’t encephalitis. Relax. I’m probably the last thing you should be worried about at this point. You’re down here for Lecter?” She shifts her weight to the right, and for a moment she seems to part down the middle before rejoining and settling. “So what, you two are a thing now?”

If it weren’t so horrifying this would be damn near hysterical. Will swallows hard, blinking a few times before letting himself begin to believe that she’s actually standing there before him. “Not exactly. We didn’t really have a chance to figure our relationship out before he died,” he says, feeling utterly insane. “What...Beverly, what the _hell_ is going on?”

Beverly grins, tilting her head just slightly to the side. She regards him like she did before, like she’s the only person who’s able to look deep enough to really figure him out. He always appreciated that about her when she was alive. She always tried to understand, to listen. “It can’t be easy, Will. If it were easy people would show up all the time trying to bring people back.”

A vice-like fear grips Will’s chest. He blinks once, twice, but she’s still standing there in front of him. “This can’t be real. I thought...I thought I’d find him here, that maybe he faked his death and he was waiting for me.”

“When has your life ever been that simple?” she asks, smirking. There is a rock large and flat enough to sit on just behind her, and when she leans against it all of her pieces fall out of place just slightly. Her eyes are not even, her mouth scattered across her face in fits and starts. “It’s a test. Everything is always a test, isn’t it?”

Will gives a small nod. “Seems so,” he chokes, finally starting to catch his breath. “So what do I do?”

Beverly shrugs, looking around. “I wish I could tell you. I don’t really know the rules myself. Why I’m here, what I’m supposed to do. I figure it’s a ‘Ghost of Christmas Past’ type thing. Mainly I just want to know what the hell you’re thinking bringing someone like him back into the world.” The mirth is gone from her voice. She fixes her eyes on him with a singular clarity, sharp and stern as she waits for his answer.

He feels pinned, like a butterfly fixed to a board. 

The question is worth examining, though. With Hannibal Lecter dead the world is rid of one more monster. People across the Chesapeake Bay can sleep easier knowing the ripper is not out hunting, searching for his next meal. And here Will is, and he wants to bring him back. Someone who took every one of his victims and saw no fault in dismembering them and turning them into works of art. Someone who had no qualms with consuming their flesh. Who drew power and pleasure from it.

Will’s always been too self-deprecating to be considered selfish, half of his actions the result of being guilted or bullied into them. When he joined the police force in New Orleans it was a way of trying to cope with his terrible brain; he felt if he could use it to stay one step ahead of the evil in the world then he wouldn’t become evil himself. And then there was Virginia. What was supposed to be a simple life teaching turned into a neverending parade of horrors, all of which he was strong-armed into by Jack Crawford. All of which took one more chip out of his already compromised sense of self. He never really asked to be the hero, he was just afraid of becoming the villain.

All of the roads he’s walked down, all the battles he’s fought and lost or won, they’ve all led here. It’s time to figure out what he wants, what he longs for without the influence of anyone else.

He draws a steadying breath before he begins. “I don’t think I can give you an answer you’d consider a good one,” he says slowly, looking at her feet instead of her face. It’s easier when he doesn’t have to meet her gaze. “I don’t know if you ever really knew who I was, Beverly. I’m not sure I did either. For the first time though I’m starting to figure it out, and it turns out I’m not who everyone wanted me to be.”

“That sounds like some deep, pretentious bull,” she says blandly.

Will chuckles, giving a shrug. He finally looks up to meet her eyes, once more reminded of the brutal precision of her death. “Look, I’m not...I’m not saying it’s sane, or right, or even something that science or psychology can explain. It's just all I've got Beverly. I don't have any other answer to give you.”

“He killed your friends, Will. He killed me. And he’s not done, if there’s anyone left he has unfinished business with? He’ll kill them too,” Beverly says, standing. Her pieces shift and straighten back out.

Will knows this, knows that as long as Hannibal is alive and possesses the strength and desire that people like Alana will never be safe. He has to risk it, though. “I have an ace of my sleeve,” he says quietly.”

“Oh?”

“He loves me. He’s willing to tear the world apart for me. If I can I’ll use that to protect the few people I have left that I love.” 

She looks him up and down for a long while, a look of displeasure and disbelief on her face. “You’re a lot more selfish than I realized, Will.”

“Looks like it.” While he has no sense of the passage of time, Will knows that he needs to keep going. “Which way, Bev?”

Beverly takes a moment, sizing him up. She looks at him like she doesn’t really know who he is; perhaps she doesn’t. Perhaps no one does, save for the monster he’s decided to walk through hell for. With a steady hand she points forward, jaw set. Just as he goes to move forward she speaks again.

“Just...take care of yourself, Will. No one else is going to.”

Will looks back, heart giving a painful twinge in his chest. They never had the chance to be more than casual work acquaintances, but he really does miss her. “Goodbye, Beverly.”

He feels a heaviness in his chest as he turns away, like a boulder tied to him that’s dragging him underwater. At this point he has no choice but to keep going. The cave carries on for some time just as it’s been; the paths are narrow but even, the ceiling above just high enough for him to walk without having to kneel. Every now and then he’ll hear a noise, some distant voice that seems to be calling his name. If he listens closely he can almost convince himself that it’s Hannibal, waiting for him at the end of this long, meandering journey. 

He’s just starting to dwell on the ache in his feet when the path opens before him. The ground slopes down as the ceiling slopes up into a massive cavern, and in the distance he sees what looks like a lake. Despite the absurdity of it all he’s struck by the beauty of the place. Glittering and silver, the water is so still and smooth that it looks like a mirror has been gently set down on the flat earth. He doesn’t know where the light filling the room comes from, but it saturates the space with a cool blue glow that makes everything that much more surreal.

The dirt and rocks crunch below him as he moves forward. The air is cool and damp but smells somehow sweet, a cloying scent that drifts thick in the air. “What now?” he whispers to himself, stepping to the edge of the water.

“I feel like you’re going to spend a lot of your life asking yourself that.”

Will once again feels adrenaline flooding his system, the urge to flee strong as he turns around. This is a voice he doesn’t know. Posh and smooth, the tone is rich and clearly amused by the situation at hand. He finds himself face to face with a man roughly his height though a bit more willowy. His hair is expertly styled and swept back, his facial hair just enough to add an air of scholarly appeal to him. A rich purple scarf is wrapped around a neck bent at entirely the wrong angle. 

“I don't...I don't know who you are,” Will says slowly, taking a cautious step back. 

The man smiles, offering his hand. “Anthony Dimmond. Your boyfriend murdered me while he was galavanting around Florence.” When Will merely stares at his hand he chuckles, dropping it to his side. “Really? You haven't heard of me? Some detective you are.”

Will bristles, sizing Anthony up from a few feet away. “I'm not a detective, and of course I’ve heard of you. You're the one who found him out when he was living as Fell. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong and it bit you in the ass.”

“Coming from the reigning queen of not knowing what's good for you?” Anthony counters, arching an eyebrow. “Can you tell me where you are or what you're supposed to do, or are you just running into this completely blind?” He adjusts slightly so he can see Will better, trying to account for the strange angle of his neck. “Better yet, can you tell me exactly what your feelings for Hannibal Lecter are?”

Will is silent, jaw set and hands clenched at his sides. He's never been so tempted to hit a man with a spinal cord injury. 

“I thought so,” Anthony says pointedly. He winds his hand through the end of his scarf, tugging thoughtfully. “You know, I could tell Mrs. Fell wasn’t the real Mrs. Fell the night that I dined with her, but my reasoning was off. I suspected she was Dr. Lecter’s beard, and maybe in a way she was, but I certainly hadn’t guessed that they were on a romantic murder tour of Europe. How did you feel, knowing he’d run off with some woman while you fought for your life in a hospital?”

“You’re the last person I want to talk to about this,” Will mutters darkly. He turns to take another hard look at the lake. It’s vast, the edges touching either side of the cavern and stretching on as far as he can see. There’s no way to walk around it, and no boat or raft to take him across. Is he supposed to swim?

A soft noise draws his attention back to Anthony. This time there’s pity on the man’s face, which Will finds even more infuriating. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to contend with these thoughts, Mr. Graham. I don’t think you get to move on until you do.”

So that’s how it works. “You’re...what, gatekeepers?”

For a moment Anthony looks confused, like he’s searching for the right answer but can’t find it. He casts his gaze out over the water, letting it wander for a bit before turning back to Will. “I...maybe?” he says, his cocky self-importance abandoned for the moment. “I just know...I don’t remember where I was before this, I just know I was waiting for you,” he says quietly.

Will is struck by genuine pity. Dimmond may be irritating, but Will is alive. If all goes well he gets to go home at the end of this adventure. He draws in a deep breath before he speaks. “I genuinely hate Bedelia Du Maurier for taking my place in Italy,” he admits. “I have no right to hate her for joining Hannibal, I was given the option and turned it down. He gutted me with a linoleum knife and left me to watch someone I care about die. And still, I am insane with jealousy when I think of her in the space he made for me.”

Anthony tilts his head, eyes curious. “You don’t agree with what he does. Who he is. You don’t want to be a killer.”

“No,” Will agrees, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t. It felt good to kill Dolarhyde, but that felt justified. He murdered women and children and animals without any remorse, and tried to kill my wife and stepson. He shot Hannibal. It felt righteous.”

“Would you kill again?” Anthony asks. He no longer sounds smarmy or sardonic, his face a mask of harmless curiosity. “For no other reason than Hannibal’s desire for you to do it?”

Will swallows hard. He’s considered it, much of his journey so far spent turning all these questions over in his mind. If he decides to spend his life with Hannibal then the question will come up. There’s no avoiding it - Hannibal Lecter is exactly what he is and will never be anything else, there’s no use in trying to convince himself that he can change the man through the sheer power of love. That is not who they are. Will doesn’t possess the delicacy or wiles needed to seduce someone away from their basic nature. So can he move in the other direction? For a life spent with Hannibal, can he become a killer?

His voice cracks on his answer. “I wish I were more horrified that I’m considering it,” he chokes. 

Anthony nods sagely. “If you’re considering it then you’ll be persuaded. You need to come to terms with that now so it isn’t a shock to the system when it happens. Everything will be much smoother that way.”

“You don’t exactly sound horrified,” Will says, heart heavy under the weight of his realization.

“I’m not,” Anthony chuckles. “Look, I know you don’t know me, and I don’t know how I know you, so let me give you a little insight. I’m not exactly a _good_ person, I’m just a person. We’ve all got that little voice inside of us that guides us in the direction of being completely self-serving. I learned to listen to mine without chagrin.” He shrugs with one shoulder, the other twisted and stiff from his wounds. “You’ve spent a long time being controlled, forced into a thousand different directions. Some people thought they were doing it for good, some were being manipulative, some didn’t even mean to but couldn’t help it. Now you’ve made your own choice. Might as well follow through.”

Will laughs, a sound completely devoid of joy or amusement. “Meanwhile, I’m here because Hannibal was manipulating me throughout our entire relationship.”

“Most of it,” Anthony cedes. “But once you realized he lost the ability. And you chose him anyway.”

It’s true. Despite the guilt still coiling and uncoiling in his stomach, Will has made his choice. “Now I just have to bring him back.”

“So go get him,” Anthony smiles. “I love a good love story.”

Will laughs. This time he means it. With a deep breath and a newfound understanding of himself he turns to face the water, casting his eyes over the smooth silver surface. “Do I swim across?”

Anthony hums, walking up to stand beside him. “I don’t think so. I think you jump.”

It makes about as much sense as anything so far has, but by now he knows better than to doubt. He toes off his shoes, stripping out of his jacket and shirt in an effort to remove anything that might weigh him down. A few steps closer and he is able to dip a toe into the water, the chill sending a shudder along his spine. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Okay. Okay here I go.”

“Good luck,” Anthony says with a cheerful smile as he steps out of the way. Will takes two lunging steps forward and jumps.

Hitting the surface is like shattering a mirror. The cold is razor sharp and jagged like broken glass, slicing into his skin and knocking the air out of his lungs. The physics don’t make any sort of sense. The water should support his weight, he should drift - instead he falls, and falls, and falls through the frigid darkness like he’s toppled over that cliff’s edge all over again. Now there is no Hannibal in his arms. Now there is only himself and the never ending darkness as he tumbles forever.

The pressure is crushing, squeezing the oxygen from his lungs. How long is this going to go on? He should have breathed in deeper before he jumped, held tighter and fought harder against the cold that knocked the air from him. He chokes, bubbles rushing from his mouth to what he imagines is the surface. A mouthful of water forces itself past his lips and into his lungs, legs thrashing and arms desperately reaching for something that may end the pain. He’s panicking. He’s going to die in this lake, and it will all have been for nothing.

The edges of his vision are starting to go black and blurry. The ache in his lungs is pure agony. Everything is starting to fade away when a small hand grabs his own and yanks him out of the water.

Will lands with his back on a cold stone floor, soaked and freezing and trembling like a leaf in the wind. He gasps, chest burning as oxygen once again floods his system.

“Didn’t you grow up around boats or something?” He opens his eyes to see Abigail Hobbs leaning over him, eyebrow raised.


	4. Chapter 4

Will can count on one hand the number of times he’s cried since childhood, and most of them have involved mental illness or extreme physical pain. Now though, he finds his vision swimming as he tries to swallow around the overwhelming emotion that’s bubbling up in his chest. Abigail sits on her knees in front of him, dressed in the jeans and sweater she died in. The scarf around her throat is knotted prettily and soaked in blood. She is smiling, and as far as he can remember it is the first time she’s looked at him with any sort of tenderness in her eyes.

“Abigail,” he chokes, wiping at his eyes with filthy hands. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault…”

She reaches over, her lily white hands taking his. They’re so small and perfect and delicate, like a doll’s. They make his own look awkward and rough clasped within them. “It’s okay,” she says, eyes bright. “Sometimes it takes time to figure things out. You finally came around, that’s what matters.”

Managing to pull himself to kneeling, Will looks down at the sodden state of him. He pushes his dripping curls out of his face as he finally looks around.

The cave is gone. He now sits in what appears to be a well lit parlor, full of rich looking furniture and paintings on the walls. Sconces line the room and cast everything in a warm glow, everything cozy and clean. There’s no water, no lake to be seen. He sits on a thick red carpet that is slowly growing darker beneath him as water drips from his hair and skin.

“How did I-”

Abigail points over Will’s shoulder. When he turns his head he sees a large mirror mounted within a brass frame, the same sparkling silver that the water had been. He turns, clearly dazed. “This place…”

“It’s bizarre,” Abigail says with a grin. “It feels like I’ve been here for years, but looking at you I know that can’t be true. You look the same as when I left you. Well…” She reaches forward and lightly touches her fingertips to his forehead. “A few more scars, maybe. Here though, places change right before your eyes. Sometimes the laws of physics apply and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you see someone you know and you can carry a full conversation, sometimes they can’t hear you at all.”

“It sounds terrible,” Will says softly, trying to fathom the endlessness of it all.

Abigail shrugs, getting up to take a turn about the room. “It’s not,” she says with a knowing little grin. “Time doesn’t pass like it does where you are. It feels like I’ve been down here for an age, but it also goes by in the blink of an eye.” She plops onto a soft velvet chair, smoothing her palms over the arms. “There’s a lot of exploring to be done. I don’t think I’ll ever be finished, really.”

Will stands, dripping his way over to a couch covered in a fussy-looking floral pattern. He’s overwhelmed by how little sense it all makes. “You seem to understand it better than the others that I’ve run into. Beverly Katz, and one of the men Hannibal killed in Italy...they talk like they don’t know any of the rules. You seem to fit right in.”

“I’ve always been that way,” she says, examining him. “Or maybe I have absolutely no idea, I’m just completely unflappable. Who knows?”

“I think unflappable describes you pretty well,” he says with a weak smile, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Abigail hums thoughtfully, sitting back as she takes him in. He feels like she can see right to the center of him, past the bullshit and insecurities to who he truly is underneath. She must like what she finds, as she smiles and quirks her head a bit to the left. “You love him, don’t you? It took you some time, but you’ve figured it out.”

Will can feel his face heat at the question. He’s never been great at discussing his feelings, and this seems so much more important than any relationship that came before. Still, he’s come this far, walked for ages, faced his own failures and insecurities to sit here with Abigail. There’s no turning back now.

“I do,” he says, surprised at the assuredness in his voice. “I...I had to figure it out. I had to suffer, and fight, and I had to...to lose him. But yeah, I love him.” Looking away, he lets his eyes wander over the paintings that hang on the wall. He realizes with a start that they’re all people he knows, and all of their eyes seem to be focused directly on him. Jack, Alana, his father, even the dogs...every image is still and silent and hanging on to his every words. “I took too long though.He’s gone now and I don’t know how to live without him.”

When he turns back Abigail’s eyes are warm with understanding. “I get it, Will. I can’t say I always understood you, or that I was ready to accept you as a father figure like I did with Hannibal, but it really did feel like there was a space carved for us where we fit together like puzzle pieces.”

“And I messed it up,” Will says ruefully.

“I can’t exactly blame you for how badly you wanted to do the right thing,” she snorts, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t pity yourself though. If any of this is going to work you have to embrace the choice you’ve made, embrace who you’re going to be if you bring him back. Who are you going to be, Will?”

Without bidding his mind flashes forward to a life he’s already imagined extensively. To quiet dinners shared together, and dinner parties spent in the company of a carefully selected few. He knows he isn’t made for a life of hunting the innocent, but he’s more than willing to live in blissful ignorance of Hannibal’s proclivities if it means he can protect their life together. And who knows, maybe the day will come when he once more gets to admire the blackness of blood on his own skin as he stands in the moonlight.

“His,” he says with clarity. “I’m going to be his.”

Apparently it’s the right answer. Abigail nods in satisfaction, standing up and moving to an old oak desk situated in the corner. She searches for a solid three minutes, opening drawers and shuffling papers filled with writing Will can’t even place the language of, stopping every now and then and examining some old and highly polished knicknacks. He sees what might be a snow globe holding two men embraced on a clifftop - he decides not to ask. He merely sits in quiet curiosity, figuring that patience has worked for him so far.

“What are you looking for?” Will asks quietly. A sudden weariness settles over him, his limbs heavy and slow as his eyes blur slightly. He has no concept of how long he’s been down here; it can’t be more than a few hours, but part of him feels like it’s been days. 

Abigail glances over her shoulder. Will can just make out her smile. “I’m not sure,” she says as she goes back to searching. “Something. This place has a tendency to give you exactly what you need, but you have to be willing to look for it.”

With a triumphant “a-ha!” Abigail pulls something from a drawer, turning and brandishing it towards him. With a curious arch of his eyebrow he takes a small key from her fingers. It’s old fashioned looking, something you might see in an antique shop. 

Will heaves a sigh. “And what does this go to?”

“Probably that,” Abigail says, laughing and pointing to a door he hadn’t noticed before. Every door so far has been large and ornate, this one is almost laughable in its simplicity.

His heart starts to hammer in his chest. “And Hannibal...Hannibal is in there?”

For a moment Abigail looks confused, like she’s completely forgotten where she is and what they’re doing. The look of helplessness lasts all of four seconds before she smiles and shrugs. “Kind of. Just...keep walking. And don’t look back, no matter what. He’ll be there, but you can’t glance back to be sure.” She laughs at the look he gives her. “You have to have faith, Will.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “This place makes no sense.” He takes a few resolute steps towards the door before something occurs to him. He turns back, eyes wide. “Come with me.”

Abigail laughs, almost in disbelief. “What?”

“Come with me,” he insists. “If I’m bringing him back can’t I bring you back too?”

She smiles sadly, shaking her head. “No, no I don’t think so,” she says, voice soft. “I don’t think it works that way. You love Hannibal in this way that no one can explain, not even you. It’s a special circumstance. A relationship like that doesn’t come along every day, you know?”

“I never thought I’d be that guy,” Will says, laughing softly.

“I didn’t think you’d be that guy either,” she grins. “Now go, get out of here. You don’t belong down here, you survived.” Just as he goes to open the door she gasps, catching his arm. “Oh! There’s...there’s going to be a price,” she says slowly. “You don’t just get to take someone back without giving a piece of yourself in return.”

Will turns, raising an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she says apologetically. “Just...a piece of you. Something you’ll miss. That’s all I know.”

He heaves a sigh, examining the key in his hand. “Well. He’s a piece of me too, so at least I’ll be getting that back in return.” He offers her a warm smile, fondly tugging a lock of her hair before sliding the key into the lock and turning it.

The door slides open easily, exposing a plunging darkness that steals a bit of his nerve. He grits his jaw and steps in. It’s warmer than his journey so far, a fact he’s grateful for as he left his shirt behind before jumping into the lake and his pants are still sodden. The heat seems to press in around him as he shuts the door and reaches his hands into the abyss. He touches walls on either side; they’re smooth and dry, full of catches and divots that suggest he’s touching peeling wallpaper.

A few steps in and a light switches on. It’s dim and warm, like the one in the room he’s just left. He was right about the wallpaper. From the looks of it he’s in a hallway that has no end he can discern. Underneath his feet the carpet is filthy, a far cry from the plush one on the other side of the door. Everything feels grimy and damp. With a sigh he starts walking, wondering how far he’ll have to go this time.

After what feels like hours he starts to wonder if this can go on forever. Maybe he did die? For all he knows he _is_ in hell, that the fall did kill him as well. He’s destined to spend the rest of eternity walking, clinging on to a hope that he’ll never see come true. He’ll always be steps away from Hannibal and unable to save him.

He’s starting to worry for his already shredded sanity when he first hears the footsteps behind him.

They’re soft at first, distant and barely noticeable. He stops and listens closely but hears nothing, the path silent enough that he thinks he might have imagined the sound. Nothing but the empty echoes of a long, abandoned hallway. He continues on. The absence of noise is almost overbearing and for a moment he thinks he ought to sing to keep himself sane, but then he hears it again. For a moment he moves to turn, but Abigail’s words come rushing back. He draws a breath and continues on. 

When the footsteps rejoin him they’re so close that he can feel the presence of something weighing heavily on his back. It’s an indescribable fear, having to move forward while unable to turn to face what pursues you. Sweat prickles at his temples and his mouth goes dry. How long has it been since he’s had a drink? Shouldn’t he be hungry by now? None of this makes sense and damnit his feet ache and he can feel blisters forming and he’s going mad and-

“Will?”

He stops in his tracks and nearly drops to his knees. While he half expects strong hands to reach out and grab him, there is nothing to stop his fall but a dusty, peeling wall. “H-Hannibal.” Once again he has to fight the urge to turn around, to grasp Hannibal’s face in his hands and make sure this is all real.

“I’m here.” The voice is just as smooth and steady as he remembers, though there’s an edge of curiosity to it. “Although I cannot say I know where ‘here’ is.”

“We’re...um…” Will braces a hand on the wall and rights himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s hard to explain. Do you remember...what happened?”

There’s a moment of silence that Will uses to catch his breath and his balance. “I remember falling for a very long time. I remember your arms around me, and how lovely you looked in the moonlight.”

“I don’t know how to explain this without sounding insane,” Will murmurs. 

A soft chuckle from behind; it fills Will with a warmth he didn’t know he’d been without. “Will, very little in our time together has made sense, and yet here we are. I dare say I’m more accepting than most.”

This is true. Still, it’s hard to know where to even start. “When I proposed this whole trap for the Dragon I knew there was more to the story that I wasn’t telling Jack. I had it all planned out in my head, every minute detail, every possibility for deviation.”

“Perhaps I did succeed in turning you into me,” Hannibal says with amusement.

“God, don’t say that,” Will says, laughing weakly. “That makes it sound so much more twisted than I intended. Anyway, before you even broke out I knew how it had to go. And it all happened just as it was supposed to, everything down to the smallest detail played out how it was meant to. Dolarhyde shooting you, stabbing me. He needed to incapacitate you so he could do his work. He needed me to suffer because it was the surest way to make _you_ suffer. It’s why he stabbed me in the face first, it was flashy, grand. Personal. He wanted to make me as ugly as he felt, he knew how you’d feel about that.”

Hannibal makes a small, irritated sound. “As if your beauty were merely superficial.”

Will feels his cheeks coloring, but presses on. “So we kill him. I knew we would. I knew I wanted to, for myself and for you. As my final gift for you.”

“Because you intended to put us over the cliff.”

Will would give anything to be able to turn around and see Hannibal’s face. Would his expression be as unreadable and impassive as ever? He swallows hard and nods. “Because I intended to put us over the cliff.” He huffs out a short breath and begins to chew his lip as they take a moment to walk in silence. “It was the only way I knew how to save us. To save myself. I couldn’t think of a life where we could comfortably live together without constantly looking over our shoulders for Jack, or the next Pazzi or Mason or whomever. I didn’t see myself as a killer, but I couldn’t fathom life without you. So it seemed like the only way.”

For a moment, Will can swear he feels fingertips lightly ghosting through his curls.

“I admire the sentiment, though I think perhaps we could have come up with a better solution,” Hannibal says thoughtfully, voice patient and calm. Underneath that smooth surface Will thinks he can hear a sort of glow as Hannibal begins to realize what this means about Will’s feelings. “And what, I’ve been unconscious?”

Here goes nothing. “No. You died,” he says slowly. “And you’ve been dead. For a few weeks now.” When there’s no response he rushes on. “I don’t know how to make that sound less insane Hannibal, but you died. They pulled you out of the water after I’d already been taken to the hospital. Jack let me ID your body. You died. And all of a sudden I knew I’d been wrong, so God damn wrong. About who I am, what I am, what I have the potential to be.” He swallows hard, embarrassed to find his eyes watering. “Our lives...we’re too tangled together to separate now. I don’t want to. So I came for you.”

“And how did you find me? How did you know where to go?” Hannibal asks quietly, as if he’s trying to process everything.

“Bedelia,” Will says, half laughing. “She just...gave me this address, told me to come get you. I didn’t know what I’d find but it definitely wasn’t this. I think she’s some sort of witch or something.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.” Will once more feels a hand near to him, but this time it catches the waistband of his pants and stops him in his tracks. The hallway continues to stretch on before him like something out of a horror film. “Why will you not turn to face me, Will? Do you worry what I might think of your scarred skin?”

“No, trust me. I’m dying to,” he says wearily. “But it’s one of the rules. I think. I can’t look back.”

Hannibal releases him, lightly stroking his fingers along Will’s lower back before they resume walking. “My Orpheus. And what other rules are there?”

“Just one more. I have to give something up. No idea what the hell it is or if I’ll be able to live without it, but fingers crossed.”

“Lead on then, Orpheus,” Hannibal murmurs. They fall into a silence as comfortable as one can be on such a journey, footsteps falling in sync the longer they walk. Hannibal’s breathing pattern changes ever so slightly, and Will can practically hear the question just before it comes. “You say you don’t want to be apart from me. So much so that you came to...wherever we are to retrieve me. What does this mean when we return?”

Will has heard the question so many times by now, but this time he’s ready for it. Just as he goes to speak he sees something in the distance; he peers, heart swelling when he realizes it’s a door. “Whatever you want it to mean. I’ve never...God, it sounds too cliche to actually explain how I feel. I need to be near you. With you. If that means all I can do is kneel at your feet every night like a dog while you read by the fire? I’ll take it.” There’s a moment of silence before he presses on, feeling a bit frantic. “I don’t know, Hannibal. I mean I know, I just...I feel too old to be silly and romantic and it’s just not me, so I’m sorry if that’s the declaration you were hoping for. I just know that I want you, and I’m desperately hoping that you want me.”

The silence behind him stretches on. What’s more, the footsteps following him have stopped.

Will’s stomach drops and his heart jumps into his throat. He has to stop himself from turning, from reaching out to the man who’s supposed to be following him. “Hannibal, are you there?” he asks, voice breaking. Nothing. Panic rises in his throat with an acidic bitterness, stomach churning. He stops walking, trying to reach behind himself to grope for the body behind him. He encounters nothing but empty air.

The door. He has to get out, and then he can look. With that thought gripping his consciousness he breaks into a run, feet thudding hard against the threadbare carpet as he sprints for the exit. This can’t have been for nothing. He can’t live on without him. He has to be there.

It’s the same red door that he entered through, gleaming and bright. It beckons him forward like a lighthouse. It’s just as polished and perfect as before, and when he grasps the handle it turns easily and swings open. For a moment he thinks he’s once more been plunged into darkness, but after a few moments his eyes adjust and he realizes he’s once more in the basement of the ramshackle house in South Dakota. While he wants to turn and search for Hannibal, he doesn’t know the rules. Is he out far enough?

“Hannibal?” Still no response. He runs for the stairs, darting up and into the hallway that led him down into this maze in the first place. He can see moonlight streaming in through the windows, bright and gleaming as it’s reflected off of the snow outside. It’s been a few hours...or has it been a few days? He has no way of knowing and no real desire to check. He needs to get outside. He knows if he gets outside he can turn around and God, he’s never been a religious man but he’s praying to whomever might be listening that Hannibal is there with him.

Through few more doors, over a wooden floor that protests with each frantic step. He can see the front door, he’s so close. Just a few more moments and he’s throwing it open, and he’s out, and-

The world goes pitch black before him.

His foot catches on the step he was aiming for, sending him sprawling onto the ground. His body hits the snow, a thrill of pain rushing from his palms and through his arms as the shock races through him. He can’t see. He knows he’s outside, he can feel the bitter chill of winter clawing through his naked chest and back, but he can’t see. As he rubs firmly at his eyes he tries to get to his feet but only trips again, this time landing with his face in the snow. Something that feels suspiciously like blood drips down his lips and chin.

This is it. The part of himself he had to give up. The world is dark and he has nothing to show for it. He is alone

For the second time that day, Will feels hot tears welling in his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. His body feels like he’s been traveling for weeks. The snow manages to soothe the blisters on his feet, but every muscles in his body screams in agony. He starts crawling slowly, in the direction he hopes will lead him to the car. He can’t drive like this but he can at least get the heater started and pray help comes.

He was stupid to believe in fairytales. He is no Orpheus and Hannibal is no Eurydice, there is no magical underworld where he could go and bring his long lost love back from the dead. He is not a Greek hero. He is blind, and cold, and alone.

He is so, so, alone.

A wave of agony grips him stronger than any physical pain he’s ever felt. A strange noise fills the air - with alarm he realizes that it’s his own voice, screaming into the darkness he is lost within. He drags himself to his feet, staggering forward, arms clasped tight around his shaking body. He only makes it a few trembling steps before he trips once more.

This time he is caught mid-air. Strong arms pull him close, his body soon held tight to the warmth of another. Just as he begins to panic he catches the scent of a familiar cologne, soothing his mind and easing his fear. Hannibal brushes his lips softly over Will’s temple, his own body shaking. Soon a mouth covers his own, kissing him again and again with what is clearly reverence and a trembling affection that grips them both in fits and waves.

A soft voice washes over him, lips brushing against his skin. “You did well, Will. You did so very well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! There's totally a smut coda if you go poke around my works page, but the request was that secret santa submissions were rated "NBC Hannibal." If you want to see Hannibal get his lovin' on with Will to show his appreciation check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5513102).
> 
> I'm on Tumblr [here](http://that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com), let's hang out!


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